Page 140 of The Thirteenth Child
“Is anything with you ever proper?” I asked.
“You tell me,” he murmured, deepening the kiss.
I felt lightheaded and giddy, close to another swoon as my words fell into his mouth. “Is this really happening?”
His finger grazed my cheek, setting my blood to sizzle. “I truly hope so.”
As much as I wanted to push away worries of King Marnaigne and the instructions he’d explicitly bid me follow, they wouldn’t retreat. “But your father…” I gasped as Leopold pressed his lips to my throat. “He won’t like this. He won’t—”
With a sigh, Leopold sat back, creating an expanse of air between us that felt as wide as a canyon. “After everything we saw today, I can honestly say I don’t give a damn what my father likes. I want you on my arm tonight. I want you on my arm every night. Will you save me your first dance?”
I knew I shouldn’t say yes. I knew I shouldn’t do anything to encourage this heated yearning building between us. Ignoring Marnaigne was playing with fire, a dangerous one that could blaze out of control, scorching the earth and everything it touched until there was nothing left but ash.
Still, I could not find it within myself to tell Leopold no.
“I wouldn’t share it with anyone but you,” I promised, smiling at the twinkle in his eye, feeling suddenly shy. “My mask and dress are in the armoire. If you need help finding me tonight.”
“Oh, Hazel.” He grinned, pressing a trio of kisses across my cheek and then crossing to the door. “I’ll always know it’s you.”
Chapter 48
Bellatrice had picked out ourgowns for the masquerade, spending a full week dragging us from one atelier to another, all across the city. She’d examined hundreds of renderings and fabric swatches, determined to find the most exquisite masterpieces for us to wear, ensuring our names would be on the lips of every society matron and our appearance at the forefront of the minds of their handsome, eligible sons.
Unlike the parties we’d attended earlier in the season—each vying to have the most over-the-top and spectacular theme—the only thing to pay homage to tonight was the Marnaigne name itself. Everyone was to don their best black-and-gold finery, showing support for and allegiance to their most triumphant monarch.
Wanting herself to shine brightest, Bellatrice had selected the more daring of the designs—a gown with a sheer fitted bodice and a full skirt made of layers and layers of flesh-colored tulle. Dozens of black flocked-velvet snakes were carefully stitched into the netting, twisting artfully through the skirts and across her bodice, barely covering her nipples. One serpent wound about her neck beforeplunging into the deep V of her cleavage with a bold flick of its threaded tongue. Bellatrice’s maid, Cherise, had let out a gasp of dismayed delight after spotting the wicked creature.
Bellatrice’s smile had been noticeably subdued.
I watched her carefully in her giant dressing mirror as Cherise stabbed hairpins into the sweep of my updo, attempting to keep my halo tiara in place. Bellatrice had insisted I borrow one of hers to complete my look, choosing a delicate headdress with golden rays radiating from its arch, each topped with dazzling celestial spangles. I couldn’t fathom the number of jewels currently atop my head, each winking with far too much luster to ever be mistaken for paste.
My dress hung off me like liquid gold, giving me a far more festive appearance than my mood prescribed. The sparkling lamé wrapped around my torso with an asymmetric sunburst of pleats that left my shoulders and back bare and luminous, thanks to a dusting of pearlescent powder.
Though my black agar tonic had put an end to the Shivers, glittering skin was now macabrely vogue throughout Châtellerault, prompting dressmakers to dip their bodices lower and lower to show off greater swaths of sparkles.
Bellatrice had opted for a flashy smear of gold over her collarbones, lips, and eyelids and was now absentmindedly dipping her hands into a pot of paint. The shimmering cosmetic gave the impression of gloves and imbued her with an otherworldly glamour.
“I should have put my mask on first,” she realized, waving her hands back and forth to dry them. Her sigh was heavy.
“I’ll handle that for you, milady,” Cherise promised, jabbing one last pin in my hair. “How does that feel, Mademoiselle Trépas?”
I tilted my head from side to side. “If it should fall off, the fault will be entirely my own.”
“Or your dance companion’s,” Bellatrice predicted. Her words were witty but her tone sounded hollow. “They’re all perfectly dashing, but I can’t imagine any of our esteemed soldiers will make for graceful partners.”
“Not even Mathéo?” I asked, trying to nudge her into a cheerier mood. I picked up my mask—a shimmering domino of hammered gold with black painted stars—and tied it in place.
“Especially Mathéo.”
Cherise laughed, fitting a thin strip of black tulle over the princess’s eyes. Bellatrice fussed at the mirror for a moment before nodding to the maid and dismissing her from the room.
I waited until I heard the door click shut before speaking, keeping my words hushed. “Are you all right?”
For the barest moment, I saw her freeze, her spine growing rigid, but she immediately shook it off and leaned back against the elegant slope of her chair, peering at me thoughtfully. “You should have gone with the gold dust instead of that opalescent shimmer.”
“Bells…,” I began worriedly.
She sighed, annoyed at my persistence. “I need to find a husband, Hazel. Tonight.”
